All language subtitles for Episode 2 - Picasso and His Gang

[upbeat music]

In Montmartre, at the beginning

of the last century,
penniless artists

led bohemian, carefree,
and tumultuous lives.

Among these were Max Jacob,
his close friend Pablo Picasso,

the poet Guillaume Apollinaire,

and the painters Georges Braque,

Andre Derain, Maurice de
Vlaminck, and many others.

They admired and
envied one another,

while waiting to be discovered.

Picasso unpacked his
brushes in a former

piano factory called
the Bateau-Lavoir.

Fernande Olivier, his great
love moved in with him.

Apollinaire too, found his
muse, a 20 year old painter

by the name of Marie Laurencin.

Success finally came knocking
at the Bateau-Lavoir.

Gertrude Stein, an eccentric
American collector,

posed for Picasso, and Cezanne's
dealer, Ambroise Vollard,

bought a number
of his paintings.

But Picasso had a rival,
the painter Henri Matisse,

known for his
no-frills lifestyle,

and his scandalous,
vibrantly colored works.

But Pablo was determined
to have the last laugh.

[calm music]

After months of trials
and preparatory sketches,

Picasso placed the tip
of his proverbial brush

to Matisse's throat.

Some thought that
Matisse had gone too far,

but Picasso would prove that
he hadn't gone far enough.

The break, the real break
with the past, would be his.

In November 1906,
Picasso set to work.

The few visitors
allowed into the studio

discovered sketches of
a sailor in a brothel.

Gradually the
sailor disappeared,

and the painting turned into
something else entirely.

[calm music]

By the time it was completed,
it showed five women,

four of whom were
standing, nude.

The faces of the
two central figures

bore the mark of
Iberian statuettes
exhibited at the Louvre.

The character to the
left, and especially

the two figures to the
right, that of African masks.

The women's bodies
were dismembered,

fashioned with sharp
angles, big feet, fat hands,

breasts that jutted out,
or no breasts at all,

flattened, twisted noses,
their movements ungainly,

their harsh geometry
prefiguring cubism.

When the work was
finally completed,

the painter opened the
doors of his studio.

Everyone was dumbfounded.
No one understood.

Even Guillaume Apollinaire,
who was always eager

to defend modern art's audacity

didn't write a word
about the painting.

Max Jacob, too, was
silent on the subject.

Only Gertrude Stein
defended the artist,

but only half-heartedly.

[calm piano music]

Rumors nonetheless spread
through the art world.

In Montmartre, an artist has
created a scandalous work

like nothing anyone
had ever seen before.

Even his friends
disapproved of it.

This disapproval piqued the
curiosity of a 23 year old

dealer of German origin,
Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler.

Several months earlier,
his family had given him

25000 gold francs, but
with one condition.

The young man
would have one year

to prove himself,
or else return home.

The dealer immediately
recognized the major break,

"Les Demoiselles
d'Avignon," represented

in the history of painting.

Something new had
just been born,

more than a style, a revolution.

Fascinated, he wanted to buy it.

Picasso refused, he
would only let the dealer

purchase some
preparatory sketches.

"I'll be back," he
firmly declared.

He wanted a way in.

The Bernheims were the
dealers for Matisse,

Durand-Ruel for
the impressionists,

Vollard for Cezanne,
Gauguin, and the Nabis.

[knocking on door]

Kahnweiler was intent on
playing in the big leagues,

and Picasso would
be his calling card.

Until, "Les
Demoiselles d'Avignon,"

few had criticized
Picasso's works.

His studio was like a
laboratory where ideas,

points of view, and
innovations were exchanged

in an extraordinary spirit
of artistic camaraderie.

But Picasso was its demiurge.

He pulled the strings of all
the marionettes around him.

Van Dongen was
excommunicated for his

high society friends and
low artistic standards.

Juan Gris met with
a similar fate.

At the Bateau-Lavoir,
no other Spaniard

was allowed to outshine Picasso.

Max Jacob, Guillaume
Apollinaire,

and the poet Andre Salmon
competed for the master's favor.

But Max Jacob was by far
the unhappiest of the bunch.

He was knocked off the pedestal
of poetry by Apollinaire,

the pedestal of love
by Fernande Olivier,

and soon the pedestal
of art by Braque.

Max suffered. He was
consumed by jealousy.

When in 1909, Kahnweiler
published Guillaume
Apollinaire's,

"The Putrid Enchanter,"
with 32 woodcuts by Derain,

Max wept like a child.

Why him and not me?

Why does Pablo only
laugh with Guillaume?

And why isn't he
interested in my writing?

Why doesn't he stop by

to say hello when
he's in Montmartre?

While Picasso grew richer,

and Apollinaire more
famous, he was shortlisted

for the Goncourt Prize
for, "The Heresiarch & Co,"

Max was still confined
to the playground.

[somber music]
[children playing]

Max wept. His friend
had made it big.

Ever since Vollard
bought his paintings,

since Kahnweiler had
taken an interest in him,

Picasso had forgotten
his old friends,

and the connection they
had forged in tough times.

Even worse, he was moving house!

Five years after discovering
the Bateau-Lavoir,

Picasso moved out.

The movers who transported
the little furniture

they had to the new apartment

on Boulevard de Clichy
couldn't understand it.

By what stroke of good
luck does one leave

a dingy wooden building
for an upscale apartment

with a view of the Sacre
Coeur on the studio side,

and a view of the tree-lined
Avenue Frochot on the other?

Everything changed,
even the furniture.

The bedroom was a real bedroom,

and the bed a real
bed with copper bars.

The crystal and china
were proudly displayed,

and to top it all
off, they had a maid.

Gertrude Stein found
them the rare creature.

Mrs. Picasso paid her
40 francs a month,

and gave her a room
containing a round table

and a large
walnut-stained wardrobe,

and the best of the furniture
from the Bateau-Lavoir.

Picasso became irritable
in his new home.

He took refuge in his studio,

a sort of reconstructed
Bateau-Lavoir.

He insisted on
eating healthy foods,

fish, vegetables, and fruits.

[contemplative music]

He began a diet. He drank
more water than wine.

He went out less, and
with less enthusiasm.

His good cheer only
returned on Sundays

when his friends stopped by,

especially Guillaume
Apollinaire and Max Jacob.

For Picasso only had to call
and Max would come running,

and happiness was restored.

[train engine rumbling]

In 1911, Picasso left Paris
for the tiny Catalonian village

of Ceret, situated in
the Eastern Pyrenees.

There, among the fruit
trees, the countryside,

and the old houses, he
found himself again.

He stayed in a quiet house in
the heart of the mountains.

He invited his friends.

Braque and Fernande
arrived from Paris,

followed by Max, whose
journey he paid for.

The poet was in Heaven.

Apollinaire, who had
stayed behind in Paris,

wasn't there to overshadow him.

Evenings, they were reminded of

the spirit of Montmartre
in the local village cafes.

Days, everyone worked. Max
painted and wrote verse.

Of all the
Bateau-Lavoir painters,

Braque was the most
loyal to Picasso.

The Spaniard hadn't forgotten
what Apollinaire told him.

Matisse had rejected Braque
at the Salon d'Automne,

the same man who had
himself stirred up

so much controversy only
three years earlier.

Braque and Picasso had had
a close bond ever since.

They spent all
their time together,

much to the dismay of
Max, who had to admit

he was no match for Braque
when it came to painting.

However, he was the
first to recognize that

the two painters were
comparable to mountain climbers,

blazing a trail up the
mountain of Modern Art.

In 1908, the two artists
had begun to paint

distorted bodies and objects,

in an early form of cubism
influenced by Cezanne.

Analytic cubism,
the second stage

of their experimentation,
was a joint project.

Instead of the play
of light and shadow,

these paintings represented
objects with volume and depth

seen from many angles
simultaneously.

They used broken lines, a
reduced pallet of colors,

and a flattened
sense of perspective.

The problem was
that the subject was

on the verge of
vanishing altogether.

It took a good eye
to find the faces,

objects, or instruments
hiding in this strictly

monochromic world
of grays and ochers.

Max could stare and stare,
but still not make out much.

[contemplative music]

In the fall of 1910,

Picasso sat Kahnweiler
down in front of his easel.

The poses lasted for many hours,

but the work was
incomprehensible.

By adding a few
recognizable details,

a shadow behind an ear,
the bridge of the nose,

the hint of a
hairstyle, folded hands,

Max and many others
were able to conclude

that Picasso had painted a man.

Finally, a painting of
something recognizable.

In 1911, in Ceret, Braque
and Picasso introduced other

identifiable details
into their common work.

For example, a letter, a word,
a number, or a musical note.

These signs were stenciled

onto the canvas,
and then enameled.

They expressed a mental
representation of the subject.

These works included
Braque's, "The Portuguese,"

and Picasso's, "Man
with a Violin."

The following year, Picasso
introduced a piece of oilcloth

and a length of rope
into the painting,

"Still Life with Chair Caning."

Increasingly, the two companions
inserted press clippings,

and fragments of wallpaper
into their works.

Finally, they executed paper,
iron and cardboard sculptures

using recovered materials
crudely arranged,

and then painted
over to represent

an everyday object
or still life.

The connection between these
two artists ran so deep

that neither Max nor Ferdinand,

nor anyone else for that matter,

could figure out who
had painted what.

And to complicate matters,
the paintings weren't signed.

Where was Braque?
Where was Picasso?

[phone ringing]

The band was in Ceret,

when Picasso got a
phone call from Paris.

On the line,
Guillaume Apollinaire

called the troops back home.

They were to return
to Paris immediately.

The news could have
grave repercussions.

It all came from the August
21st, 1911, "Petit Parisien."

The paper ran a
shocking headline.

The Mona Lisa had been
stolen from the Louvre.

"What's that got to do
with me?" Picasso asks.

500 miles north,
Apollinaire explained.

A Belgian swindler by
the name of Gery-Pieret

had claimed responsibility for
the theft of the Mona Lisa,

along with three
Iberian statuettes.

Two of them were in
Picasso's studio.

"What are the chances?"
exclaimed the painter.

Four years earlier, Gery-Pieret,

who was Apollinaire's
friend, sold Picasso

two of the Iberian heads,
fifty francs for the lot.

At that time, the
Louvre was a sieve.

Joking, Picasso had
once casually said
to Marie Laurencin,

"I'm going to the Louvre.

Want me to bring
you back something?"

The writer Roland
Dorgeles had placed a bust

by one of his sculptor friends
in an antiquities gallery.

And for several weeks,
no one was the wiser.

Only a few days before the
disappearance of the Mona Lisa,

Apollinaire himself wrote
in, "The Intransigeant,"

The Louvre is more poorly
guarded than a Spanish museum.

What's the worst case scenario,

asked Picasso with
a hint of worry.

Well, I put you in
touch with Gery-Pieret,

answered Apollinaire.

We're going home, Picasso
decided. Right now.

[contemplative music]

He was afraid.

If the Louvre sleuths,

assisted by the gentlemen
from the Prefecture,

went looking for the statuettes,
his goose was cooked.

He was a foreigner.

At worst he faced arrest,
at best expulsion.

Apollinaire, who
risked a similar fate,

understood the danger very well.

The poet was in
a desperate mood,

and blamed his own carelessness.

The two accomplices were
faced with a single question,

how to get rid of
the statuettes?

They cooked up a
thousand solutions.

[contemplative music]

According to Fernande
Olivier's recollection,

they finally agreed on the one
that seemed the least risky,

throwing the statues
into the Seine.

No sooner said than
done, or almost.

Mrs. Picasso found
a big suitcase,

stowed the artworks inside,

and pushed painter and
poet out of the door.

[knocking on door]

When Fernande opened the
door a few hours later

to find the two
men standing there,

they were white as ghosts, and
they still held the suitcase,

and it was still full.

Finally they made up
their minds to leave

in the early morning
for the Gare de l'Est.

One kept watch while the other

put the suitcase in
a storage locker.

Then they informed,
"Paris-Journal,"

where the statuettes
are located.

24 hours later, the Louvre
recovered its treasures.

A close escape.

Except it wasn't.

[dramatic music]

[beating on door]

It was the police. They had
come with a search warrant.

Apollinaire was taken to

the Quai des Orfevres
police station.

Accused of harboring a criminal,
and accessory to robbery,

he was taken directly
to the Sante Prison.

He was led through dreary
corridors to cell block 11.

To my prison cell I was taken,

and there made to
strip down naked

while cooed some
sinister tongue,

"Guillaume, what've you become?"

He couldn't comprehend
what was happening.

He was stunned. He waited.

[clock ticking]

Meanwhile, Picasso
kept a low profile.

A day went by. He began to hope.

[clock ticking]

But the next morning at
dawn, the doorbell rang.

It was the court police.

Picasso was taken
away, arrested,

and brought before the judge.

He claimed that he
had never laid eyes

on the Iberian statues, and
that he wasn't interested

in sculpture, and that
he didn't know any poets,

least of all this Guillaume
Apollinaire the judge mentioned.

We have a witness,
the judge replied.

The witness had been waiting
for four hours in his cell.

He had been taken
out of his hole,

and brought into the
judge's chambers.

His face was haggard,
his eyes red,

his removable collar
was hanging by a thread.

Picasso took one look at
him, and then looked away.

Do you know this man,
the detective asked.

No, answered Pablo Picasso.

Guillaume Apollinaire
started in his chair.

No, Picasso insisted

with the stubbornness
of a cornered child.

I've never seen this
gentleman before in my life.

But soon, amid the
battery of questions,

he stammered, panicked,
and changed his story,

while Apollinaire
sat there in shock,

unable to articulate
a single word.

[somber music]

From behind his desk,
the judge watched

these terrified
children moan and groan.

He sent Picasso home, and
Apollinaire back to prison.

The same day, Gery-Pieret
wrote a letter

to the prosecutor
exonerating the prisoner.

And on September 12th,

Guillaume Apollinaire
was finally set free.

As for the Mona Lisa,

it would be two years
before it resurfaced.

It had been stolen by an
Italian employee of the Louvre,

who wanted the masterpiece
restored to his country.

The poet was in the dumps.

He had always been
unlucky in love,

but now in friendship too?

He found a few compassionate
souls to listen to him,

and they criticized Picasso.

For a time, the painter got

the cold shoulder from
the poet's friends.

This fall from grace,
though short lived,

was accompanied by a
vague sense of paranoia.

In the street, Picasso
constantly looked
over his shoulder

for fear he was being followed.

And then one fine day, he saw
Apollinaire's smile again.

All was forgiven.

Apollinaire was preparing
to publish, "Alcools."

This collection of
texts written between

1898 and 1912, did
away with punctuation.

The lines of verse sufficed
to give the poem its rhythm.

In it, Guillaume referred
to his stay in prison,

his romances, Pope Pius X,
typists, airplanes, sirens.

Guillaume Apollinaire
had always wanted to be

at the forefront
of the avant-garde.

In 1911, he defended
a handful of painters,

who exhibited their works at
the Salon des Independants,

proudly waving
the cubist banner.

These included Marcel
Duchamp, Delaunay,

Picabia, Gleizes,
Leger, Metzinger,

and Jacques Villon,
who had banded together

into a group called
the Gold Section.

In Room 41, Jean Metzinger's,
"Woman with a Teaspoon,"

observed visitors with
her one eyed stare,

and Robert Delaunay's,
"Eiffel Tower,"

sounded the death knell
of classical perspective.

The most audacious of the bunch

was certainly Marcel Duchamp,
whose friends had asked him

not to show, "Nude
Descending a Staircase,"

which was much too
daring for critics.

In 1913, Duchamp brought
his painting to New York

and became the European
star of the Armory Show,

a new American exhibit
of contemporary art.

"Nude Descending a Staircase,"
shocked and impressed

as much, if not more, than
his first ready mades.

While jingoist art critics
were condemning cubism

as Germanic Kraut art,
Apollinaire defended the cubists

of the Salon des Independents
tooth, nail, and pen.

Braque and Picasso,
on the other hand,

saw their work as
fundamentally different

from that of the other
Golden Section artists.

While they understood the
modernity of, "Alcools,"

they didn't see it in the work

of those Braque
called the cubisters.

Max Jacob had
remained the poorest

of the former
Bateau-Lavoir crowd.

While the others
moved on to bigger

and more luxurious
apartments, like Apollinaire

who had settled in the heart
of Faubourg Saint-Germain,

he continued to live in poverty.

[water dripping]

Max published, "La Cote," a
collection of Celtic songs.

He pedaled it to passing friends

and strangers he met in bistros.

It wasn't a job, just a
disguised form of begging.

What was left? A few
Picasso drawings.

In increasingly dire
straits, Max sold them.

The payback was cruel. The
painter covered him with scorn.

And there was little
the poet could do

to prevent the door closing
on this part of his life.

Picasso couldn't
stand it when Max

reminded him of
their lean years,

and the solidarity
that once united them.

The Mona Lisa incident
had left its scars.

The bohemian days gave way
to a period of separations.

Marie Laurencin broke off
with Guillaume Apollinaire.

Fernande Olivier left Picasso,

and ran off with a
futurist Italian painter.

When she came back
down to Earth,

she realized that the present
was now a thing of the past,

for Picasso had left too.

He was with Eva.

She was 30, and a cheerful soul

despite being weakened
by tuberculosis.

In order to escape Fernande,

Picasso brought his new
lover to the Pyrenees.

Then he set off for Sorgues,
where Braque joined them.

[contemplative music]

Fernande stayed behind.

Thus an eight year love
affair ended in mediocrity.

With Fernande gone from
his life, he finally left

the protective shadow of
the Bateau Lavoir behind.

She had been its queen.

Her departure from the band
signaled the end of an era.

[calm piano music]

Monday, March 2, 1914,
at the Hotel Drouot.

Those attending
included the curious,

reporters, dealers, and
enlightened amateurs.

An eclectic crowd filled
rooms six and seven

of the venerable
art auction house.

Max Jacob was there,
as was Kahnweiler,

and Picasso's closest friends.

10 years after creating
their little community,

the founding members
of the Peau de l'Ours

were selling off
their collection.

The transactions weren't
intended for speculative gain,

but to promote modern art,

and to help painters
make a better living.

So what had these generous souls

bought in the last 10 years?

500 works by Van Gogh,
Gauguin, Bonnard,

Maillol, Dufy, Van
Dongen, Vlaminck,

Derain, Matisse,
Picasso, and many others.

Everyone was eager to see
the cubists come to auction.

It was the first
time they'd been

on the national art market.

Everyone knew that the
Peau de l'Ours auction

was a decisive test
for modern art.

The auctioneer brought
down the gavel.

The first work,
Bonnard's, "The Aquarium,"

had just fetched 720 Francs.

Vlaminck didn't
do quite so well.

His, "The Locks at Bougival,"
sold for 170 Francs.

Gauguin's, "The Cellist,"
went for 4000 Francs,

as did Van Gogh's, "Blossoming
Almond Branch in a Glass."

With, "Study of a Nude
and The Sea in Corsica,"

Matisse started
off at 900 Francs.

"Leaves by the Waterside,"
went for over 2000 Francs,

and, "Bowl of
Apples and Oranges,"

doubled expectations,
fetching 5000 Francs,

even better than Van Gogh.

The audience applauded. But
Picasso hadn't spoken yet.

The paintings acquired by
Andre Level and his friends

predated his cubist works,
but that mattered little.

It was the man, his
innovative spirit,

that was being judged, not
the blue or rose periods.

When the auctioneer
opened the bidding

on the first Picasso sketch,
"Woman and Children,"

he was unwittingly burying
Montmartre, and the era

of splendid artists awaiting
their hour of glory.

For the hour had arrived.

"Woman and Children,"
sold for 1,100 francs.

"L'Homme a la Houppelande,"
went for 1,350 francs.

"The Three Dutchwomen,"
reached 5,200 francs.

The crowd went wild. That
was more than Matisse.

Then a giant canvas was
placed on the stage,

"Family of Saltimbanques, 1905."

The starting price
was 8000 Francs.

Five years earlier, Andre Level

had bought it for 1000 francs.

The bidding started, and
quickly went sky high,

with some bidders
enthusiastic, others furious.

The spiteful critics
were already sharpening
their pencils.

And when the auctioneer's
gavel finally hit the table,

it was like a death
blow to the old order.

The painting had fetched
11,500 gold francs,

the most expensive
work sold that day.

The gossips, and there were
many, noted that the dealer

who bought, "L'Homme
a la Houppelande,"

and, "Family of Saltimbanques,"

was a German,
Justin Thannhauser.

Anti-German sentiment had
been running high in France,

and the art world
was no exception.

Max Jacob pushed his
way through the crowd.

He had to tell Picasso the news.

The painter had
raked in a quarter

of the day's earnings
all by himself.

Finally free of the crowd,

Max hopped into a
cab to find Picasso,

for Picasso wasn't
there, he hadn't come.

And where was he, in
this, his finest hour?

Not in Clichy, and not
in Montmartre either.

Like Cesar in his
way, who had left

his artistic birthplace
and braved the Rubicon,

Picasso had crossed the Seine.

Picasso was no longer
at the Bateau-Lavoir.

He was on the left
bank, in Montparnasse.

[calm music]

[glass bulb exploding]

[strong wind blowing]
[thunder rumbling]

June 28th, 1914.

Archduke Franz-Ferdinand
was killed

by the bullets of
a Serbian fanatic.

On July 28th, Austria-Hungary
declared war on Serbia.

On the 31st, Germany issued

an ultimatum to
France and Russia.

The same day, socialist leader
Jean-Jaures was assassinated.

On August the first, France
announced general mobilization.

[bell ringing]

The next day, beneath
a blazing sun,

French troops marched out
of the Ecole militaire,

and other barracks around Paris.

Cheerful, with their
helmets cocked to one side,

the troops march up the avenues,

swords and bayonets clanking,

and converged at
the train stations.

The marching cuirassiers,
cavalry men, gunners,

and infantrymen shared a
single battle cry, to Berlin.

They expected to
come home carrying

the Kaiser's scalp by
the end of the week.

[dramatic music]

At the beginning of
the month of August,

the Italian writer,
Ricciotto Canudo,

and his Swiss friend,
Blaise Cendrars,

issued an appeal to all
foreigners living in France.

Foreign friends of France
who, during their stay

have learned to love
it like a second home,

feel the pressing need
to offer her their arms.

Foreign born intellectuals,
students, workers,

and able-bodied
men of all sorts,

we who have found material
nourishment here in France,

let us gather in a solid
group of good will,

to offer our services for the
good of the greatest France.

On August the third,
nearly 100,000 foreigners

gathered at rue Saint-Dominique

to enlist in the Foreign Legion.

Then, marching orders in hand,

they rushed to the
market at Temple

to buy hoods, trousers,
and pea jackets

that they would transform
into military attire.

In a matter of weeks,
the former residents

of the Bateau-Lavoir
had separated forever.

At the Avignon
station, Pablo Picasso

said goodbye to
Braque and Derain.

Braque, wounded at
the Battle of Carency,

would be trepanned and
then demobilized in 1916.

Derain would participate in

the massacre at Verdun,
and Chemin des Dames.

[train whistle blows]

[contemplative music]

[calm music]
[children playing]

Which members of the Montmartre
gang were still in Paris?

The meager contingent
included those,

like Picasso, who
rejected the army,

and those, like Max Jacob,
whom the army rejected.

Guillaume Apollinaire,
for his part,

enlisted in the early
days of the war.

But when one was born in Rome to

a Polish mother, and
an absent father,

wearing the nation's
colors wasn't so simple.

[birds singing]

While waiting for
his marching orders,

the poet joined some
friends in Nice.

There, at a seaside restaurant,

a young 30 year old
woman caught his eye.

She was dark,
pretty, and lively.

All she had to do
was bat her eyes,

and the poet forgot all
about Marie Laurencin.

Guillaume made inquires.

Married at age 23 then divorced,

her noble name suggested
an adventuress.

Louise de Coligny-Chatillon.

On the one hand, she played
at being a volunteer nurse.

On the other, she remained
a social butterfly,

and an emancipated young woman.

Apollinaire waited and hoped.

The day after their
first meeting,

he declared his passion
and love to her.

Five days later, he had
all his books sent to her.

He promised to write
one especially for her.

[brass gong humming]

They met soon after in a
house where opium was smoked,

then in seaside restaurants
and deserted beaches.

Everywhere except a hotel.

Each time Guillaume
suggested one,

Louise murmured that
they were friends,

and that they should
leave it at that.

[door shutting]

When she was stretched out with
an opium pipe in her mouth,

she would offer her
hand and a few promises,

all of which was
woefully insufficient.

After two months of this,

Apollinaire was
running out of steam.

He expedited his enlistment,

and prepared for
the big departure.

The day after his enlistment,

Louise showed up at the
door of his barracks.

She asked for
Guillaume Kostrowitzky,

second gunner driver
of the 78th battalion

of the 38th artillery regiment.

He greeted her.

They went to the hotel and
spent nine nights there.

[crickets chirping]
[calm music]

Then, Apollinaire did
his basic training.

[feet marching]
[calm music]

He learned to ride a horse,
discovered the joys of drills,

the drudgery of soup
duty, and roll call.

In his letters to Lou,

he hid no detail of his
lowly soldier's life.

He reassured her the war
wouldn't last more than a year.

[mortars exploding]

The night draws shut, and
Gui follows up his dream,

where everything is
Lou, and war is naught.

The stars wink, and
the hay lays golden,

and he thinks on
she whom he loves.

When Lou didn't answer his
letters quickly enough,

the desperate
gunner would whine,

and remind her of their
nights of lovemaking.

His sweetheart, alas, seemed
to be losing interest.

Her passion was fading.

The poet was still
loaded with desire,

but opposite, there
was no artillery fire.

Lou was drifting away,
like all the others.

[engine starts and rumbles]

So the poet decided
to look elsewhere.

Elsewhere, was at the
bosom of a young girl

he met in a train
in January, 1915.

Her name was Madeleine, she
was very young, not even 20.

But she had long eyelashes.
Nothing wagered, nothing gained.

Apollinaire sent a
postcard to the stranger,

expressing his deepest respects,
and a kiss on the hand.

Two weeks later, in
the postmaster's bag

there was a package for
him, a box of cigars.

This was enough so
that his future letters

were no longer addressed
to Mademoiselle,

but to My Little Fairy,

and then My Dearest Little
Fairy a few days later.

Finally in an enraptured sigh,

the artilleryman began
to stake his claim.

I loved you from the
first moment I saw you.

Meanwhile, those who
had stayed in Paris,

far from the front,

watched the soldiers on
leave with curiosity.

Their euphoria was only a mask.

One morning, while strolling
near the Tuileries gardens,

Max Jacob and Picasso noticed
a small crowd gathering

in an alley where pieces of
heavy artillery were on display.

The canons and mortars
had been painted over

with black and yellow stripes.

Picasso studied the
decorations carefully,

and then exclaimed, we did that.

We, meaning the cubists.

At the beginning of the
war, in Pont-a-Mousson,

on the Eastern front,
a telephone operator

was told to transmit
orders to fire the cannon.

No sooner had the
cannon been fired,

than an enemy shell blew it up.

This made the operator wonder,

why not protect
men and artillery

by camouflaging them
in realistic colors.

The telephone
operator was a painter

by the name of Lucien
Guirand de Scevola.

He shared his idea with
his commanding officers.

In February, the
Ministry of War agreed

to put together a team
working under his direction.

Who did Scevloa call first?
The cubists of course.

Only they were capable
of representing

an object from all
possible angles,

not just the viewpoint of
whoever was observing it.

And so it was that the cubists

invented the first camouflage
in military history.

These painters and sculptors,

who had been seen as champions
of Kraut art in 1914,

began painting fake
scenery behind the lines.

They painted realistically
colored leaves

on allied helmets and canons.

They hid observation
and artillery towers

behind fake ruins,
chimneys, bails of hay,

and hand-painted human
and animal corpses.

[contemplative music]

Braque, but also Camoin,
Dufresne, Dunoyer de Segonzac,

Roger de la Fresnay, Marcoussis,
Moreau, Jacques Villon

joined in the defense of
the nation in various ways.

[military cadence music]

In November 1915,

Apollinaire volunteered
for the general infantry.

He was named second lieutenant

in the 96th infantry regiment.

The poet had become a solider.

[bomb explodes]

[guns firing]
[calm music]

He discovered flares,
cannons, and machine guns.

He discovered the horrors
of life in the trenches.

He was on the front
lines, stretched out

on the bloody ground, the
cannon breathing down his neck.

He slept in the mud,
if at all. He shivered.

He washed when he could,

and endured shells and
shrapnel, and gas attacks.

The barbed wire
ate into his skin,

as did the vermin and lice.

He protected himself behind

sacks of sand or
human body parts.

He learned to dig foxholes,

and rebuild at night like
a caveman in the darkness.

[contemplative music]

His comrades were falling
one after another.

From the front, Apollinaire
sent a letter to Madeleine

in which he begged
her to wait for him

if he were taken prisoner.

He thought about death of
course, but he wasn't afraid.

He never complained.

When it came time to fight,

he was the first to
leap from the trenches.

He showed remarkable courage.

His men loved him because
he protected them,

and made sure they
had enough to eat,

shared his fire and
his care packages,

and lent them his blankets when
they were drier than theirs.

Kostrowitzky was too
hard to pronounce,

so they called him
Cointreau-whisky.

Submerged by the tumult of
war, Cointreau-whisky fought.

When he had a free moment,
he wrote to Madeleine.

There's a ship that has
sailed away with my love.

There are six sausages that
look like maggots in the sky

that will hatch into stars.

There's an enemy submarine
that is out to get my love.

There are 1000 little pines,

splintered by the
bursting shells around me.

There's a soldier passing by,
blinded by asphyxiating gas.

There's everything
we've torn to pieces

in the guts of Nietzsche,
Goethe, and Cologne.

There's me longing for
a letter from Madeleine.

There are photos of
my love in my wallet.

There are the prisoners who
pass by with worried faces.

There's a young woman
thinking of me in Oran.

There is a canon whose crew
is busy with its parts.

There's the post master
who comes trotting

down the road of
the lonesome tree.

There's a spy, they say,

that prowls here like
the invisible horizon,

which he dresses in
and vanishes into.

[dramatic music]

March 17th, 1916,
near Berry-au-Bac, in
the bois des Buttes,

Apollinaire stretched
a canvas tarp

above the parapet of his trench,

and made himself as comfortable
as he could in the mud.

From the pocket of his overcoat,
he took out a pad and pen.

My dearest little fairy.

He made Madeleine heir
to all his belongings,

replacing Lou, to
whom the poet-soldier

had bequeathed everything
several months earlier.

[incoming bomb
whines then explodes]

[somber music]

Apollinaire brought
his hand to his head.

There was a hole in his helmet,

and something warm trickled
down his cheek, blood.

[somber music]

In a poetic flash, Guillaume
thought of this phrase

from his Calligrammes
which he had engraved

on his toothpaste kit
during basic training.

Oh how lovely war is.

The poet swayed, could
he have been this wrong?

Before losing consciousness,
he called for help.

Falling to the ground,
mortar fire burst overhead,

as lovely as fireworks.

[mortars exploding]

[contemplative music]